


like retribution

by runandgo



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: M/M, but you will pry the trope of laurens liking to fight from my cold dead hands, laurens is an idiot, this contains violence but isn't too graphic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-14
Updated: 2016-05-14
Packaged: 2018-06-08 01:53:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,007
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6834202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/runandgo/pseuds/runandgo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>And of course John knows that they have bigger problems. Violence in the streets bigger than all of this. But it makes it - easier, somehow, to take all his worries and angers and compact them into this. The push and pull of it, the exquisite pain, something <em>tangible</em> that says "I was here. I felt this. I fought for this. I <em>lived.</em>"</p>
            </blockquote>





	like retribution

**Author's Note:**

> i have not been able to get hamilton and laurens out of my head so please enjoy this. i'm not its biggest fan, but i don't think i'll ever be truly happy with it because this fic has literally put me through hell. it started as a greaser au loosely inspired by parts of meet me inside and turned into this monstrosity
> 
> this is my first hamilton fic wahoo!! i have no idea how to write a disclaimer for this..? well obviously i don't own hamilton and i do not own the founding fathers. it's also unbeta'd and written in two days of revisions; thus, any errors are entirely my own.
> 
> comments and kudos are my Entire Life so if you liked it feel free to let me know! also if you didn't like it constructive criticism is appreciated! basically please talk to me!

There's a cluster of pain in John's eye. He can't help but wince as Laf dabs at it with a paper towel soaked in antiseptic. The taller man scowls and traps his tongue between his lips as he works. "Stop wiggling. I know it hurts."

"Like a motherfucker," John says through gritted teeth. 

Laf tuts. "I will never understand that expression. Americans are strange." 

"You've been here for almost -" he inhales sharply, cutting himself off - "10 years now, don't you count yet?" 

_"Non."_

Voices drift through the open doorway from the other room. "You solved nothing, Alex. You just made things worse with the guys to the south." 

"You're absolutely right. John should have punched him in his fucking mouth and knocked his teeth out. That would have shut him up." And John doesn't need to see his face to know that Alex is fuming. 

"Watch your tone, son," Washington warns. "We can't afford any more violence. When you get in these pointless fights it keeps us from our goals." 

"Which are what?" There's a terrible screech as Alex shoves his chair back over the scummy linoleum. "To live like this for the rest of our lives? What the _fuck_ do you want us to do when people come at us?" The conviction in his voice is so absolute when he's defending John. In another life, he'd be a great lawyer. 

Silence falls. John barely notices Lafayette dabbing Neosporin on his split eyebrow and clumsily closing it with a butterfly bandage. "I do not think you need stitches," he murmurs, brow creasing. "But you have to stop fighting. If you break this closure, you will need to go to the hospital." 

The door slams and Alex stalks into the room. No sooner has John raised his head than Alex's hands are on either side of his face. "What the hell is wrong with you?" It's said with worry, and Alex's eyes are so hollowed-out and scared that it makes something in John break. Laf takes one look at his face, those eyes, the way he walks, and ducks into the other room. 

John presses his lips together and shrugs. For some reason, he feels like crying - not because his face (and his shoulder and his stomach) hurt, but because of Alex. It's different when there are people counting on you to be safe. 

"If you weren't bleeding already, I'd slap you. You can't _do_ this anymore." With a nudge, John moves over and lets Alex sit next to him. "Let me see, please." 

Carefully, so carefully, John lifts his shirt up, and watches Alex's face fall. All the bruises, blooming like sickened flowers along his side. Steel-toed boots had collided with soft underbelly skin; now they're replaced by Alex's fingers, tripping lightly over the black-and-blue painting. There's a long red line where a switchblade caught him, surrounded by puckered, dotted bruising. "Does it hurt, baby," Alex says, breathy. It's not even a question; of fucking course it hurts. 

Ever so gently, John leans forward and rests his face on Alex's shoulder. He can feel his boyfriend's hands reaching around his head and undoing his ponytail, can feel them working through his hair. It's a simple thing, but it feels so good he could weep. He's always like this after a fight - so emotional. 

"I'll kill Charles Lee, I swear to God," Alex murmurs, fingers tapping out a staccato beat on his jeans, frenetic and nervous. 

"Yeah, well." John grins, just a little. His face hurts. "I won, fair and square." 

Alex's laugh is breathless. "I'm not sure if running home five blocks and then passing out on the porch in a _pool of blood_ counts as winning." 

"I was still standing." 

"You wouldn't have been if they had their way." The tone has changed to something more serious. 

John lowers his head. "What was I supposed to do, Alex? I can't just walk away from that shit, it's not all right." 

"I'm not saying it's all right, John! I'm saying I don't want to keep being worried if you're going to make it through the night. Jesus, _I love you_..." Alex's voice is trembling. He grabs John's wrist like he's tethering him to the world. "And I'm sorry, but I just - I can't deal with this. I need you alive." 

"I'm not gonna die," John mumbles half-heartedly. 

"That's what you think, but you just don't know. None of us know. We all imagine our death but it's going to be different when it comes. And I don't want yours to be tomorrow, or next month, or next year. You know what happens, you've heard the stories. Kids die all the fucking time and the police don't give a shit." He sounds desperate, and John's heart is breaking. His pulse beats under Alex's frantic fingers. 

When he looks up, he can see the tears glistening on his boyfriend's face, tracing down his cheeks from under closed eyes. If John didn't know better, he'd swear Alex was praying. He looks holy with the light shining down. 

Washington is still in the other room, talking quietly with Laf. John can only imagine what they're saying. Right now, he honestly doesn't care. Doesn't care what's coming, wouldn't care if his father himself walked through the door. Instead, he leans up (ignores the groans of _painpainpain_ in his ribs) and kisses Alex. 

He can taste the tears, salty on their tongues, and he pulls back. "I'm sorry. For worrying you." 

"Don't, baby, don't. Just... come here." Alex's face is open. John almost loses it again, almost lets go and cries. Honestly, this is ridiculous; he's been beaten much, much worse, but here he is falling apart over a few words. 

They move carefully to the bathroom in the middle of the night. Alex helps prop John up on pillows so he'll be comfortable, pours peroxide on his side and lets John dig his fingers into his arm as the medicine burns. Neither one of them can sleep, so they move restless as ghosts through the house. Eventually they end up outside in the gloaming, hazy with dew and the promise of summer heat to come. 

"I love you too," John says suddenly, turning to look at Alex. "You said it before, and I didn't say it back. But I love you." 

A slow grin takes over Alex's face. "Yeah?" 

"Yeah." John would never admit it, but he blushes and fidgets with the cuff of his jeans. "So... so, okay. I'm gonna stop fighting." 

"Are you serious?" Alex sits up. Now he's definitely smiling. 

"I mean it. As long as they don't say anything too bad-" 

"John, come on, please. When I said I need you alive, I wasn't joking." 

"Okay, but what the fuck else am I supposed to do?" he bursts out. "That's what you said to Washington." 

_"Not fight?"_ Alex asks, incredulous. 

"Bullshit. You fight all the time." 

"There's a difference between a scuffle and a knife fight!" He's nearly yelling. "Look. I'm not saying that fighting is something I'm above. I'd love to punch Thomas Jefferson straight in his stupid mouth. But when people cut you up? Do I have to repeat it again? You could _die,_ John." 

"So?" John raises his voice, and it echoes off the side of the house. His apathy and empathy and anguish suspend in the early morning for a split second. When the last rings disappear, both men are still completely quiet. 

" _So?_ " Alex repeats, even-tempered with a thread of warning. "So, you can't _die,_ because I don't want a morning where I wake up to a world without you in it. So you gave me a reason to want to face _any_ morning. So, I'm in love with you, and you're my best friend, and you don't get to go out like that. Not without a good long wait. I don't care how awful you feel, or whatever things they say - please, for the love of God, keep yourself _safe,_ John." 

And finally he lets down his resolve and a few tears trickle down his face. "I'm sorry," John mutters, wiping his eyes. "I just, I just... I love you. You know I love you." 

"Yeah, I do." Alex takes his hand and kisses it. "Use your hands for something other than fighting." 

He's quiet again, thinks of his first fight. At 15, struggling to hold himself up, only knowing that "Jack, that's how men settle arguments." They had completely kicked his ass, he'd stumbled home with blood pouring from his broken nose, and for all the world his father looked so _proud_. When he'd asked "Bet I should see the other guy, huh?" all John could manage to do was nod. 

And so he'd started to hit back when the boys came up behind him, smacking the back of his head or calling names across the grimy streets. When he'd fallen in with Laf and Hercules and Alex, it had only made it easier for him to get into punching matches. He started sticking up for his friends too. 

Then he got a reputation. It seemed like there was someone new to fight every night, and most of the time he won. But sometimes he didn't. 

When he was 18 Thomas Conway broke his collarbone. He had already moved out, was already living in Washington's house with Alex and Laf and Hercules, was already dating Alex, but he could barely even pick up the phone to make a call. His head was swimming with pain, vision fading and blackening like a TV during a thunderstorm. 

"This is Alexander Hamilton," came the greeting from the other end of the line. Crisp and clean. Professional. 

"Alex," John panted. "I need - need you to come get me, please." 

"John?" His tone completely changed. In the background John could hear him getting up, could hear keys jingling. Someone - probably Lafayette - asked Alex something too quiet to hear. "Where are you? What's wrong?" 

"Uh..." John closed his eyes, tried to remember. "Monmouth Street. The field. I... I think something's broken." 

"On you?" The screen door swung open and slammed shut. "What, where does it hurt?" 

"I think my collarbone," he slurred. "Heard a snap. Hurts a lot. I threw up, maybe twice." 

"Oh God." Alex's keys turned in the ignition. "I'm coming, okay? I've got Washington with me, we're gonna write a report -" 

"'S a bad idea." 

"So is fighting with fucking skinheads, John," Alex had replied tightly. 

That time, he'd gone a while without punching anyone as his bones healed. But when he heard them talking shit, taunting, desperate for it, it felt _so good_ to go back. It always felt so good. Like retribution. Like the prodigal son returning home, vengeful, triumphant. 

And of course John knows that they have bigger problems. Violence in the streets bigger than all of this. But it makes it - easier, somehow, to take all his worries and angers and compact them into this. The push and pull of it, the exquisite pain, something _tangible_ that says "I was here. I felt this. I fought for this. I _lived._ " 

Beside him, Alex still holds his hand, staring as the sun comes up. It's brilliant orange and pink against his tired face, and not for the first time, John feels a pang of guilt. That tired face is because of him. 

There are things greater than ourselves in this life. 

_Fighting is easy, young man; loving is harder._ Washington had said something like that once, after John had split his lip trying to beat the guys who spit at him and Alex kissing behind the movie theatre. 

John puts his achey arm around Alex's shoulders and rests his head in the space between his boyfriend's chin and shoulder. _Use your hands for something other than fighting._ God knows he can't make any promises, but for Alex he would drain the seas. He would stop time. "Okay." 

The sunrise blazes in the sky, and the heat of it warms them both.


End file.
